Each year the office has a blow out Halloween Costume Contest, with different groups and teams interpreting a theme and going all out – costumes, pumpkin decorating, and even (oh yes it’s true,) cube/office decorating. This year we decided to really go for it – opting for a furry group of cartoon characters from our youth – who shall remain nameless until Halloween because we are THAT crazy serious about the competition.

The next thing I know I am at the Kohls (which is pretty suburban mom of me too, BTW,) in front of a giant display of semi-fuzzy velourish sweat suits in every conceivable color, making my selection. (What’s that? You say “velourish” is not a word? That has never stopped me before.) Of course, Black and Grey were the two selections I was drawn to, but alas, these options had no coordinating fluffy characters in the cartoon land to which we are paying our homage. Unable to stomach the idea of full-body royal purple, or the baby-est of blues, I settled on a light tan that worked well for one of the characters. I plunked down my debit card (do I have any “Kohl’s Cash”? Um… no,) and left the store with a plastic bag hiding my purchase.

Here is where it gets truly shameful. While The Mr. was upstairs reading Ten in the Bed for the eleventy billionth time with Jr, I decided to try the situation on “just to see.” As soon as I zipped that fuzzy jacket up under my neck, a strange and powerful sensation washed over me. I felt warm, and relaxed. I sunk onto the sofa and stretched my legs out in front of me. The fireplace toasted my velour suit as I curled into its generously proportioned comfort.

Mmmmm. Cozy.

I was asleep in two minutes.

Uh oh. The Mom suit has magical powers. It soothes and swaddles and calms. It warms the limbs, and the soul.

Crap.

In the days since that first encounter, the pull of the suit’s siren song is strong. I feel it, luring me after long days on endless conference calls, enticing me as I brace against the fall chill to get home.

Twice more I have given in. The rewards it promises have not gone unfulfilled.

3 responses to “What really happens when the shades go down.”

::blushing:: Oh yes, I know Erma Bombeck’s work – that is high praise, indeed! I am glad you enjoy my little slice of suburban insanity. I’m thinking your grandson needs a tiny Toddler version of the velour track suit, so we can nap together in them. 🙂

Reluctantly Suburban Eats

Recipes: Eat, Drink, and be Keri

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